Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

  “I love you, Killian,” I whisper hoarsely.

  “I love you too, Rebecca.”

  It feels so fucking amazing and surreal to hear him, to hear Killian, say those words with earnest honesty.

  “Good. Now clothes. Off.”

  He stands up before me and starts to unfasten his jeans.

  I’ve already removed my soaked panties and leggings by the time he gets his zipper undone.

  My sweater gets tossed across the room, and Killian’s jeans fall to the floor.

  Before me, I see him already hard and ready.

  Instinctively, I lick my lips and reach out for him.

  My fingers wrap around the base of his cock like it’s a bottle of whiskey. God knows he’s as hard as one—and nearly as big, too.

  The tip of his cock is glistening and ready.

  I lift his cock up so that the underside is exposed to me. My tongue glides along the length of his rigid cock and up over its head.

  His groan of pleasure makes me smile.

  I pop the head of his dick into my mouth and relish in the feeling of it pulsating against my tongue.

  Killian pulls my hair away from my face and wraps it up in his fist.

  I reward him by opening my throat and taking him deeper.

  I can taste him against my tongue as it glides over it.

  I let Killian know that I enjoy it by moaning against every inch sliding down the back of my throat.

  His hips twitch, and I feel a gentle thrust into my mouth as he lets out a moan of enjoyment himself.

  My other hand slides up over his hard stomach. My fingers slide gently over the groves of his abs.

  His body is still damp from the rain, but it’s radiating the warmth you’d expect to feel on a summer afternoon.

  My tongue swirls around his head and shaft as I move his cock in and out of my mouth timed with firm strokes of my hand.

  Killian feels so good in my mouth that I could keep him until he explodes against the back of my throat.

  And I plan to.

  Killian, however, has a different plan in mind, it seems.

  His hands move to my shoulders, and he pulls me up from the bed.

  There are no words because there’s no need.

  He just looks down at me with love and wonder in his piercing blue eyes that make me feel wanted and loved.

  And respected.

  And, maybe, just a little bit fucking worshipped.

  I’m okay with that.

  Our lips meet again. I’m sure he can taste himself on my lips just as I can taste myself on his.

  Neither of us care, and our kiss only deepens, our tongues hungry for more.

  His hands slide down my side and around my waist.

  I melt into our passionate embrace as I feel him grab my ass firmly.

  My delighted laugh can’t be stopped when I feel myself being pulled up into his arms.

  I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist and lock them at the ankles.

  Our lips part, and I lean my forehead against his.

  “Killian?”

  “Yes?”

  “Make love to me.”

  40

  Killian

  Those words turn my world upside down.

  I don’t need to be preoccupied with myself anymore, with any of that bullshit that sequestered me in my own personal fucking protective bubble that kept me away from everything.

  Away from the world.

  Away from people.

  Away from Rebecca.

  The thought of her, the sight of her, the sound of her saying those words—my spirit no longer needs a bottle of spirits to feel free to fly like a golden eagle in the morning sun.

  Even just looking into Rebecca’s eyes is enough to feel those protective layers getting fucking obliterated further, leaving me—and only me—here to love her.

  And to have her here in my arms is a feeling I can’t describe, at least not with words man has created.

  So, when she tells me to make love to her, when she demands it like the fucking vixen she is, I can only answer with a kiss that burns with the love and desire of a trillion stars going fucking supernova and absorbing the entire fucking universe.

  I step toward the bed and lay her down on the sheets.

  I take a moment to absorb her beauty.

  Rebecca has always been a woman of indescribable beauty. Every time I try to explain or describe it to myself, I always come up short.

  Most images are worth a thousand words, give or take a few.

  The image of Rebecca before me is worth infinite words—or none of it, because there are no words that can even graze the realm of her magnificence.

  I press my lips against hers, her head resting on one of her plump pillows.

  Our lips dare not part, as if they couldn’t bear to be pulled away from such a loving embrace. To do so would be like pulling the moon from the sky.

  I reach down and guide my cock inside her.

  The feeling of her warmth ironically sends a chill down my spine.

  It isn’t the first time I’ve felt Rebecca obviously. But it’s the first time I’ve ever had this kind of reaction from feeling myself swell inside her.

  The sensation has us both groaning into our kiss as our tongues start cavorting like they’re on fucking Riverdance.

  I thrust into her and I can feel her pussy clench down around me as if to welcome my return.

  Her hands move up around my neck, and I can feel her palms against the back of my shoulders. The red marks that she left from before are still tender, but my body welcomes her touch with a wave of ecstatic pleasure.

  I raise myself up so that I hover over her body.

  My hips grind and move down into her in long, hard thrusts.

  Each one sends this wave of intense bliss and exaltation to my very core.

  She pulls her lips from me—with obvious reluctance—to let out a deep sigh.

  Our eyes meet, and I lean my forehead against hers.

  I reach down to slide my left palm along her thigh. I find a grip in the supple flesh and use it as a mooring of sorts.

  Properly anchored, I thrust into her harder.

  A fierce intensity flares within the dark of her eyes.

  Her hips begin to rise and meet my own with their own vigor.

  “Harder,” she moans.

  My grip on her leg tightens to the point where I can feel her muscles flexing uncontrollably at each thrust.

  The pace at which my hips lunge into her quickens. The force of each movement rises to meet the desire of the woman beneath me.

  Her groans and roars are coming much faster and much louder.

  The feeling of her nails dragging along my tender flesh makes me groan with the same intensity of her own.

  The fierceness in her eyes pierces into my soul.

  She already claimed my body with her marks.

  She claimed my heart with her words.

  Now she’s claiming my soul with her gaze.

  Her previously transfixed gaze is broken as I feel her legs shake and tremble on their own accord.

  The heels of her feet dig into the small of my back. Her hands pull me down toward her.

  Her back arches to force my cock to remain firm within her.

  The rate of her breathing quickens until it pauses with an especially intense lungful.

  She succumbs to her climax, and a fresh wave of warmth washes over me.

  Her body pulls me in of its own desire, until our bodies are pressed against each other.

  She lets out the breath she’s been holding.

  I can feel her chest heave as she struggles to catch her breath.

  Rebecca removes her hands from my back—and I’m surprised to feel her move them down my arse instead. She grips it tightly and begins to pull my hips toward her.

  “Don’t stop.”

  I nod.

  My hips begin to grind into her once more. Each movement has her legs trembling, and I can f
eel her still treading just below the surface of another powerful climax.

  The grip her pussy has on me loosens, and it permits the forceful thrusts she demanded from me only moments ago.

  I begin to feel myself start to rise to my own climax.

  The muscles in my legs and back tighten. A precursor for what is to come.

  “More,” she whispers stiffly. “I need all of you.”

  “You already have all of me.”

  I know it isn’t what she had meant, and my words hadn’t been what I planned to say, but something within me demanded to speak instead.

  That fierce intensity in her eyes disappears at the words, washed away by a softness that I’ve not seen before in any woman I’ve ever been with.

  “Marry me, Killian.”

  It’s not a question that Rebecca’s asking me. It’s a declaration of intent. It’s Rebecca taking control of her life, her destiny, and her future.

  It’s bold and admirable...and it catches me off guard.

  “Marry you?”

  Her hands take the sides of my face as she nods.

  Maybe it’s the heat of the impassioned moment between us or the newfound declaration of love.

  I certainly can’t blame the whiskey for this one.

  But no matter the cause for it, I welcome it with open arms.

  “Yes, Rebecca. I will marry you.”

  “Yes?” She laughs that most wondrous laugh of hers.

  “Yes. Always yes.”

  Our lips meet in a tender, gentle embrace. It isn’t as intense as the others, but it’s filled with every bit of passion and love as the others.

  It’s a brief kiss as if submerged beneath a fresh wave of fierce ecstasy.

  I feel her body tremble and writhe uncontrollably beneath me. But this time, she pulls me down under the surface of the sea with her.

  As she clenches down around me, I give in and explode within her.

  The sensation of euphoria that I submit to is as excessive as it is powerful.

  My cock twitches as I fill her with my own warmth. Each twitch sends this jolt of lighting to my spine.

  My brain feels tingly and numb as a limb that has fallen asleep.

  I bask in this feeling unlike any I have felt before this very moment.

  “Killian?” Rebecca licks her lips and smiles joyously.

  “Yes, lass?”

  “I really fucking love you,” she says with a laugh.

  “Well, I am Killian Walsh.”

  She gives me a playful smack in the arm.

  We share a brief kiss as soft as the sands of Culebra.

  “I love you, Rebecca Doyle. Now and always.”

  41

  Rebecca

  I lift the glass up off the table and toward the clear, sunny sky.

  The light seems to dance off the fine crystal, casting a prismatic rainbow on the table cloth. That makes for a nice show for a moment, before it’s time for me to use the glass for what it’s really meant for and take another sip...of sparkling apple cider.

  Come on—I’m six months pregnant. There’s plenty of champagne here but none for the bride.

  There’s also plenty of Irish whiskey, and kegs of lager, ales, stouts...

  “If you drink anymore, lass, you’ll be a walking distillery,” Killian says, giving me that knowing smile.

  “Do they distill this stuff? I’m pretty sure it grows on trees.”

  “The fruit does, love. Not the manufacturing process.”

  “I think you’re the walking distillery, Killy. How many of these kegs did you empty yourself?”

  “Ah, you jest. I’m not that bad. I’ve only finished a single keg today...maybe one and a half. But not many!”

  I smile and set the glass down, wringing my hands on the napkin that’s thrown across my lap. Killian reaches out to squeeze my hand and leans toward me.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “You know I’m limiting myself as much as you limit yourself...zero kegs, zero pints, zero anything for six months.”

  He places a kiss on my forehead. His lips are gentle, and it’s as if every fear I have slowly evaporates into thin air.

  His words give me more than a slight bit of comfort. The knowledge of his weekly AA meetings is a continual source of comfort, as well.

  Six months. I’m damn proud, and I can tell him that with a silent, adoring gaze just as well as I can tell him with my often-lacking words.

  I’ve always been more of a pictures kinda gal, anyway.

  I’ve always dreamt of getting married as well—with a big wedding like this one.

  The last one doesn’t count.

  In all my years, I could never have imagined being married to a man like Killian Walsh.

  “I think it’s time we mingled with our guests,” Killian says, taking me by the hand. He helps me out of my seat like a gentleman and removes my chair.

  We had decided on an outdoor reception. Killian has always felt that if our family and friends were to get a true taste of Irish culture, there was no better way to do it than to connect with the land.

  The truth is, there’s something liberating about not being contained by walls. I don’t think I could’ve made it through today otherwise.

  We look around at the little clusters of people forming various groups. Judging from the sounds of laughter, it seems like everyone is having a good time.

  It’s then that I notice Mr. and Mrs. Walsh in a deep conversation with my parents. Watching these couples together makes it apparent how vastly different Killian’s and my life have been.

  Killian’s mom and dad are dressed from head to toe in what looks like designer clothes and fashion pieces from continental Europe. It’s good that he’s really sending them a big chunk of his every royalty check.

  They don’t speak much though. They simply nod as my parents take over the conversation.

  I’m still not sure where Killian got his gabby tendencies from, but it sure wasn’t parental influence.

  My parents, on the other hand, are the most animated people you’d ever meet.

  Maybe that’s why I enjoy being a wee bit outspoken myself from time to time.

  It’s not easy for me to move stealthily these days, seeing how I’m even bigger than Kylemore Abbey, but I don’t have too much trouble pushing myself up from the table and sneaking through groups of other guests to get a closer scope of our parents talking.

  When I get to the catering table close to them, I pretend to look at half-empty trays of boxty and colcannon as I eavesdrop.

  “I’m sure you would just love Cali. It’s warm all year round. Lounging at the pool, the beach. Then there’s the music festivals. We try to stay young.”

  More power to ya, Mom.

  “In fact, my Rebecca over there illustrated a poster for a local band called the Fuck Boyz. Maybe you’ve heard of them,” she continues.

  Okay, I have to spin around to get a look at the Walsh’s reaction to that tidbit.

  Killian’s parents look quite scandalized. Mr. Walsh coughs slightly. I notice Mrs. Walsh adjust her glasses before speaking.

  “Yes, well I’m sure your daughter is talented, and clearly she has good taste, if she’s marrying our son,” Mrs. Walsh says.

  My mother gives Mrs. Walsh a slight smile. I’ve seen this look a million times before.

  Killian strides up next to me, and we both watch our families talking about us as if we weren’t right there.

  “Yes, well I’ve always prided myself on raising my daughter not to depend on a man. It’s your Killian that should feel lucky that she even looked his way,” my mom continues.

  I raise a brow at Killian. “Think we should step in?”

  “Before they kill each other, yes. The last thing we need is a war between our mothers.”

  War Between our Mothers.

  That sounds like it could be one of Killian’s novels. Or does it sound more like a quirky children’s book I’d be drawing?

  We step towards the tw
o women.

  “It’s so great to see you, too,” I say, reaching out to hug my mom and then Mrs. Walsh.

  Killian kisses my mother on the cheek.

  “Mother,” he says with a smile, putting his hand on Mrs. Walsh’s shoulder.

  “Killian, darling, you look so handsome. Your father and I have never been so proud,” Mrs. Walsh says, gushing over her son.

  Killian laughs.

  “If I look good, it’s only because of my beautiful bride, Rebecca,” he says, wrapping a hand around my waist.

  It doesn’t quite make sense, but I’m happy to take it.

  “I agree it was a lovely service. Perhaps you’ll come out to visit us in SoCal at some point,” my mom suggests.

  “Of course. I’d love to see where Rebecca grew up,” Killian responds honestly.

  “Who knows? Maybe you’ll decide to stay and raise your family there. You know what the weather’s like around where we live, Killian? You could throw all your heavy coats away for starters...”

  “I don’t think so. My grandchild is going to have a proper Irish upbringing,” Mrs. Walsh interjects.

  Yes, I can see where this conversation is headed.

  “Well, wherever Killian and I decide to raise our family, it’s going to be on our own terms,” I state calmly, unequivocally.

  Mrs. Walsh is about to say something, but she’s doesn’t get the chance. My good friend Stephanie and Catherine come to our aid.

  “Becca!” Catherine says, running up to give me a hug.

  “You were fantastic. I love the dress,” she says.

  “Thanks, Cathy. It’s so good of you two to make it,” I say.

  “Congratulations to you and Killian. I wish you many more years together,” Stephanie says.

  “How are you enjoying your stay in my neck of the woods?” Killian asks.

  Steph looks at Catherine before answering.

  “If you had told me it was going to be so outdoorsy, I would’ve worn some other outfit,” Stephanie says.

  “It’s so much muddier than I’m used to,” Catherine replies.

  “This is nothing. We haven’t even hit the rainy season yet,” Killian says.

  “Rainy season, huh?” Stephanie looks like she’s considering that concept, and apparently, even for the Zen-stoic yoga teacher, it’s a difficult one to fathom. “It’d take me a while to get used to living here.”